Winter at Mustang Ridge (9 page)

“I . . . Okay.” She smiled ruefully. “Peter’s probably missing me. He’s good about the horses, but still.” She sketched a suddenly shy-seeming wave in Jenny’s direction. “It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry I interrupted your evening.”

“What, you’re not buying me as an assistant?”

“Not when Nick is prepping and schlepping his own syringes.”

“Shoot. I’ll have to remember that next time.” Jenny dug in her pocket, and came up with one of Krista’s cards. She held it out. “Nick said you’re new to town and haven’t been into horses for too long. I’m at this number for another five weeks, and then it’s my sister’s number. She’s my twin. Anyway, give me a call if you’d like to get together sometime. Or if we don’t connect, give Krista a shout-out. She’s always up for talking horses, and she loves making new friends.”

They left amid Michelle’s effusive thanks, piling back into the truck and cranking the heat as Nick punched a few notes into his phone. When he tucked it away, he shot Jenny a sidelong look and an approving smile. “You’re quite a lady.”

The simple statement went straight through her, warming her more thoroughly than the hot air being pumped out of the vents. “I didn’t do much.”

“You did plenty.” He drove away from the barn,
toot-toot
ing the horn as they went by the house. “Michelle could use some horsey contacts.”

“I liked her. And we’ve all got to start somewhere.” She paused, glancing over at him. “What does ADR-FUO stand for?”

“You haven’t heard that one? It’s a vet-school special that means the horse ain’t doin’ right, due to a fever of unknown origin. ADR-FUO.”

She giggle-snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth. “In other words, you don’t have a clue why he’s sick.”

“Yeah, but I gave it a name, which made her feel better even though it doesn’t really mean anything specific. And the meds will make Nero feel better, so it’s a win-win.”

“You’re not worried that it’s serious?”

“Any fever that high is serious in its own right, but it’s responding to the Banamine, which means we can keep his temp in a safe range. Most likely it’s a stray virus that might or might not hit the other two horses—the stocked-up legs have me leaning in that direction. I’ll run tests, of course, and maybe something will pop up. Or else he might develop another symptom or two. My money says this’ll be the end of it, though. And in a few days Michelle will probably find some other reason to stress about him or one of the others.”

“Hypochondria by proxy?”

“Maybe a little. I’m not going to fault her for wanting to do right by her horses, but I’m also trying to guide her a little on learning to do the basics for herself.”

“Not keen on spending every other Friday with Nero and his buddies?”

He lifted a shoulder. “No reason she should spend for an emergency farm call if it’s not really an emergency.”

She studied him, liking what she saw. “You’re a good guy, Doc.”

“You sound surprised.”

“That you’re a good guy? No. That I’m here with you? Maybe a little.”

“You don’t usually date locals?”

I don’t usually date mature, self-sufficient adults
. The thought showed up out of nowhere, popping into her head like someone had whispered it into her ear. “Something like that.”

He paused at the top of Michelle’s driveway. “It’s not too late. You hungry?”

“Gosh, yes. Bring on the golden arches.”

“I think we can do better than that.”

“Would you mind if we didn’t?”

He laughed over at her. “Jonesing for grease?”

“Gran doesn’t believe in fast food. Which, of course, means I crave it the moment I set foot on the ridge.”

“I know just the place, then. It doesn’t look like much, but the food rocks.”

“Sounds like my kind of dive.”

Sure enough, when they walked into a small, brightly lit diner a half hour later, she closed her eyes and inhaled the scents of grease and powdered sugar, and reached out to squeeze his hand. “This is exactly what I had in mind.”

Better yet, it was an unknown quantity, a small place tucked into a strip mall outside of Three Ridges. She was pretty sure it had been a Blockbuster or something the last time she had paid attention. Now it was the sort of place that didn’t look like much from the outside, mostly plate glass and a menu stuck above the
OPEN
sign, with vinyl booths and mushroomlike stools at a Formica counter. But it was nearly two-thirds full at ten p.m., which was always a good sign.

“Dining in or takeout?” asked the hostess, a bottle blonde with wide-set eyes and a pointy chin, who Jenny thought might have been a year or two ahead of her in school.

“Takeout okay?” she asked Nick.

“Works for me.”

“Cool.” She gave the menu a quick glance and went with the burger that had the longest list of stuff added on top. “I’ll have a rustler’s special with fries and a large Diet Coke, please, and . . .” She flipped the menu and drew a finger down the desserts. “A slice of chocolate-pecan pie. To go.”

When the waitress transferred her attention, Nick held up two fingers. “Make that two of the same.” As she moved off, scribbling, he said, “Nice to know you’re not one of those ‘I’ll have a salad with the dressing on the side, and water with a lemon’ girls.”

“I have my salad days. This ain’t one of ’em.”

“Word.”

They sat companionably close at the counter for the ten minutes it took their food to appear, making small talk about the giggling teens, hustling waitresses, and decor.

“It’s homey,” Jenny decided, “though my mom would probably come up with some highbrow name for it. Vintage-inspired Western Kitch, or Mid-Century Rodeo.”

“Retro Yard Sale Cowboy?” Nick suggested.

“Ooh, that’s a good one.”

The waitress plonked a couple of bags down in front of them, along with a ticket. “Pay up front. Have a nice night.”

They wrangled briefly over the bill, he paid, and they headed back out into the chilly night. “Where to?” he asked as they reached the truck.

She shot him a sidelong look. “Have you been to Makeout Point yet?”

He did a double take, and then gave a long, slow grin that came with lots of dimple action. He eased in until she was leaning against the passenger door, blocking her with his body in a move that sent a skitter of warmth through her as he said, “Jenny Skye. Are you asking me to go parking?”

N
ick had expected to be attracted to Jenny—heck, he had been looking forward to their date all week. But he hadn’t expected to be charmed. He was, though. Not just by her enthusiasm for riding along with him or the way she and Michelle had connected, but also by the way she grinned up at him in challenge now.

“Maybe I
am
asking you to go parking,” she teased. “Are you shocked?”

“It’ll take a whole lot more than that to shock me, darlin’.” He leaned in, saw her expression change as she readied for the kiss he knew they were both anticipating . . . and then he reached past her and opened the truck door. “Shall we go?”

Her face blanked for a second, and then she laughed, balled up a fist, and socked him in the arm. “Beast!”

“And here I thought I was being a gentleman.” He offered his hand to help her up into the cab, and squeezed her fingers before letting go and shutting the door. When he climbed in on the other side, he added, “But if you want me to be a beast instead . . .”

“Oh, just shut up and drive.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Hunger got the best of them, and they ate their burgers and fries on the short drive out of town, chasing ketchup and special sauce with napkins and good humor. Jenny directed him along secondary roads that got progressively narrower as they went, with snow under their tires and packed in berms on either side. The only illumination came from the truck’s headlights and the sliver of moon overhead, intermittently visible through thick stands of pine.

“The turnoff is up there.” She pointed to a gap in the trees. It proved to be a plowed one-lane road that wound through the trees for about a mile before ending in a wide turnaround. There, wind had scoured the ground nearly bare, revealing a rocky outcropping that speared out past the tree line. Beyond it, the world fell away.

He rolled the truck to a stop. “Should I drive out there?”

“We used to when we were kids, but let’s not risk it. I’d hate to see the Vetmobile go poof.”

“The Vetmobile, eh? Do I get a cool theme song?”

“We’ll see.” She lifted the last two takeout containers. “Want to take our desserts mobile?”

“Absolutely. Let me grab a couple of flashlights.” He expected to freeze, even in his heavy coat and ski pants, but when they got out of the truck, he was pleasantly surprised. “Hey, it’s not so cold here.”

She took a deep breath of the pine-laden air. “It has something to do with the trees and the air currents, though there’s supposed to be a hidden hot spring involved, too. Every few years, a group of kids—or adults who should really know better—gets in trouble trying to find the hidden springs, and Search and Rescue has to come in and pull them out of wherever they’ve gotten stuck, lost, or otherwise incapacitated.”

“Think we could find it? I’m up for some spelunking, if you know where to start.”

“I’d suggest waiting until summer for that one.”

“We could use melt patterns and steam to find the hot spots.”

She looked momentarily intrigued, but then shook her head. “Nah. Krista would kill me if either of us wound up out of commission.”

Enjoying her mix of irreverence and family loyalty, he took the containers and offered her the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

They walked together along the point, not needing the lights because the moonlight amped as they broke out of the trees.

For a make-out spot, it had a hell of a view.

Nick gave a low whistle as he balanced himself and looked out over a sheer forty-foot drop. The cliff face was featureless save for a few ledges that offered far more sharp rocks than soft landing spots, and dark, jagged stones speared through the snow at the base. But beyond that ruggedness, the snowscape smoothed out, flowing away from them almost as far as he could see in the moonlight, until it butted up against the distant foothills.

“The land down there isn’t part of Mustang Ridge, is it?” He thought they were still too far south, though he didn’t have the area fully mapped out in his head yet.

“No, it’s state land. We used to see mustangs down there all the time—little family groups, sometimes bigger herds on the move. I’d come out here by myself, bring my camera, and just sit here until dusk, waiting for the perfect shot.” She scanned out to the horizon. “I don’t see any tracks. They must be ranging someplace else for the winter.”

He looked around. “I should’ve brought a blanket or something for us to sit on.”

“Ah, let me show you the trick. Come on, this way. Watch your step.” She flicked on her flashlight.

To his surprise, she led him back to the tree line near the parking area, and then down to what looked like a fault line in the stone, but turned out to be a narrow path that ran below the promontory to a small sheltered area he hadn’t seen from above. There, old, worn logs were set in a semicircle around a fire pit that was lined with stones and blackened with soot.

The logs were carved with a myriad of names and dates, some in hearts, others with threats or boasts, and a few RIPs, spelling out the history of a generation or two of teens. The nearby stones were bare of graffiti, though, and there wasn’t any trash, suggesting that either the local rangers patrolled the area, or the kids had a code of conduct when it came to using the point.

Jenny sat at one end of the center log, leaving room for him to sit beside her as long as he didn’t mind squeezing in with their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder.

He didn’t mind that. At all.

“Here.” She handed him a fork and took one of the dessert containers. “Keep track of your trash. We carry out at least as much as we bring in around here.”

Which answered that question. “Thanks.” He took a bite and looked around, appreciating the shelter, the view, and the company. “This is definitely better than the diner. As long as we don’t go over the edge, that is.”

She bumped him with her shoulder. “I like living a little dangerously.”

He could relate, but it also brought a twinge of
been there, done that, learned my lesson
. He wasn’t the same guy he had been before, though, and they were just having fun. “Is that what got you into photography?” he asked. “The call to adventure?”

“Either that or vice versa. Chicken, egg, who knows? According to my parents, when Krista and I got chicken pox—we were maybe ten or so—I recovered first and was driving everybody nuts because I wasn’t sick enough to stay in bed, wasn’t well enough to be out doing much, and was bored with everything in between. So Gran gave me her instant Polaroid and two boxes of film, figuring that would kill an hour or so.”

“And an artist was discovered?” He liked the image.

“Something like that. Two days later, I had my first showing.” She grinned. “I matted the photos on construction paper, hung them along the hallway leading to the kitchen, got Gran to make cookies, and—if you believe my father’s version of the story, anyway—tried to charge admission.”

He chuckled. “Way to be an entrepreneur.”

“I didn’t get away with selling tickets, but my parents got me a few more packs of instant film, which I burned through in a weekend. A few days later, Dad handed me his thirty-five-millimeter camera—a decent Canon with a zoom and everything—and told me that he would buy the film, but I had to pay for the developing out of my allowance.”

“Which, I’m guessing, taught you not to waste your shots.”

“Yep. It also motivated me to do extra chores, which I suspect was part of his plan. Anyway over the next few years, I took some classes, won some prizes, and did most of the yearbook candids and a bunch of the senior pictures. It was a natural progression to head for film school, even if it meant moving out of state.”

“And from there, to Belize.”

“Actually, it was an internship in Kenya first, followed by a couple of bottom-barrel jobs in L.A. and New York, where I clawed my way up to the camera crew. Then I worked on documentaries in the UK, Ireland, and central Texas before signing on with
Jungle Love
because I was ready for some rain forests and parrots. So far, I’ve done two seasons in Belize and one each in Honduras, Guatemala, and central Mexico.”

“Impressive. I bet your passport is even prettier than mine.”

“We can have a stamp-off if you like.”

“You’d win. And I think mine’s expired.”

“Not mine,” she declared, and dug into her pie. “I can’t wait to get back on a plane headed wherever.”

Again he felt that twinge.

“What does your family think about you living abroad?” he asked. When she hesitated—maybe?—he added, “You mentioned wanting to escape some weirdness earlier. I thought they might be leaning on you to stay on at the ranch.”

She shuddered. “Yeesh. Don’t even say it. No, they’re used to me being gone. As for the weirdness, that would be courtesy of my mother. These days, she and I make oil and water look like best buddies.”

“Really? I’m surprised.” He had only met Rose Skye a couple of times, and had the impression of a cheerful—if somewhat formidable—woman who didn’t have much to do with the ranch operations. “She seemed pretty mellow to me.”

“You must’ve caught her on a down day.” She closed her take-out box and set it aside.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I owe you a couple of personal questions, remember? Besides, it’s something I’ve been thinking about lots since I’ve been home. It’s the first time the two of us have been under the same roof in . . . I don’t know. Five years? Six? I don’t know if it’s gotten worse recently, or if I’m just noticing it more.”

On any of the other first dates he’d been on in the last couple of years—not that there had been many—he would’ve steered things in some other direction, keeping things light and fun. And, yeah, he and Jenny were just having fun . . . but they were also friends of a sort, and he wanted to help. “What is she doing that has you worried?”

“When I was growing up, she was totally normal, you know? She wasn’t perfect—who is? But she worked in the ranch office, drove me and Krista around, nagged us to do our homework and chores, rode out with the roundups, and she was, well, Mom. And when it became obvious that Mustang Ridge was going to have to make a change if it wanted to stay afloat, she got right behind Krista’s idea of a dude ranch. She helped design the cabins, the theme weeks, even the dining hall and the original Web site.”

“I take it something changed?”

“When it was all up and running, and Krista was finding her balance being in charge of things, our mom and dad announced that they were retiring, buying an RV, and taking off. Which I totally get—my dad should’ve been an engineer or an inventor or something, but there was no way he was going to let the ranch leave the family, so he became a cattleman instead. He never loved it, though. Not like he’s loved traveling.” An utterly fond smile softened her face in the moonlight. “You should see some of the things he’s engineered in the RV—little machines that let him brew coffee in the galley while he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, spring-loaded gizmos in the sleeping compartment that make it easier for my mom to lift the mattress and get to the storage area underneath, that sort of thing. And he’s made friends all over, not just because he’s the kind of guy people want to be around, but because he can fix almost anything. Your taillight is wired wrong? Let Ed Skye take a look at it. Got a problem with your plumbing? Eddie can help. He’ll take a beer in payment, but never anything more.” Her eyes went soft in the moonlight. “He still gets emails from all over the country asking him how to fix this or that.”

“He sounds like a neat guy,” Nick said. “I should’ve made more of an effort to get to know him when I was out to Mustang Ridge for farm calls.”

“Not your fault. These days he spends most of his time in the workshop, hiding from Mom.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t say that. It’s just . . . she’s gone crazy with this retirement thing. Where he gets a kick out of helping other people, she’s gone the other way. She latches on to hobbies, becomes obsessed by them and loses track of the people around her.” She pried a frozen pebble off the ground and tossed it in the fire pit, where it clinked and slid to the bottom. “Like when she’s on a cooking kick and invades Gran’s kitchen. Or when she goes on a decorating binge and moves her and Dad into a tiny guest room with just a double bed in it. And when you try to talk to her about it, she just steamrolls right over the top of you, acting like nothing’s wrong. Because to her, nothing
is
wrong. It’s everyone else who’s got the problem. Not to mention . . .” She stopped suddenly, expression rueful. “Not to mention, I’m babbling.”

“Seems like you had some pressure built up there.” He took her hand, linked their fingers. “I don’t mind listening, if you want to talk.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but I think we should even things up, here. Can I ask about your family?”

“How about next time?” He stood and held out a hand to help her up. “I think my core temperature is about bottomed out.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “What do you know? Looks like I’m getting some Wyoming back in my blood, after all.”

They walked back to the truck hand in hand. When he fired up the engine and the clock came to life, she squeaked. “It’s not really that late, is it?”

He looked at the three-digit number. “Technically, it’s early.”